


The World's Only Dancing Detective

by daughterofdurinanddestiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 221B Ficlet, Boys In Love, Brotherly Love, Clair de Lune, Classical Music, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, First Dance, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft's Meddling, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Dancing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofdurinanddestiel/pseuds/daughterofdurinanddestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft loves teasing Sherlock about his love of dance, but that teasing might be the best thing to happen when John gets wind of how dancing makes Sherlock feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's Only Dancing Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff. Fluff. Fluff. I rewatched s3e3 again and the pining between Sherlock and John before he gets on that plane is so thick I could cut it with a knife.
> 
> Anyway, when I remembered that Sherlock taught John to dance, I just knew I had to write this!
> 
> Enjoy! (Also a little side Mystrade is implied, too.)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, and if I did I would have made Johnlock canon by now!

"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen."

"Mycroft, I absolutely detest your ringtone. If you must insist on using that, at least turn it off when you need use my phone to test your voicemail," Sherlock complained. His brother was over at 221B for tea, an act he rarely, if ever, performed.

"Actually, brother dear, that ringtone is only for you," Mycroft replied with a knowing smirk. “It’s why I made you test my voicemail.” Most people who knew Sherlock only knew the cold, calculating consulting detective. They saw his know it all, sarcastic, and generally jerky side. Mycroft knew his brother's softer side.

He recalled it when their parents made them both attend Harrow school. Granted, Mycroft was older than Sherlock, but occasionally the older classes would go in and help out with the younger ones.

It was when Sherlock was ten that he discovered the love of dance. Harrow held dance classes where students learned the waltz, foxtrot, and a myriad of other types of dance. At first he had thought it would be tedious and a waste of time, but he had delighted in being proven wrong.

He loved dancing. He loved the beauty, the intricacies, and the mental stimulation he got from dancing. What he hated was having to be so damn close to another person.

Despite his aversion to the physical aspect of dancing, his joy in the act itself was not lost on Mycroft, who used his brother’s interest as a constant way to tease him. This ringtone was not even the worst thing that he had done thus far to his little brother.

“Oh, come now, brother dear,” Mycroft sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “I have so few enjoyments, give me this.”

“Tormenting me is an enjoyment?” Sherlock muttered.

“Of course!” Mycroft chuckled. “Why do you think I even bother to visit?”

“To drive us both up the wall?”

Both men jumped at the voice, having not heard the door open over their own animosity towards each other.

“John!” Sherlock said, not bothering to contain his joy. “You’re early.”

“Yes, my practice had a cancellation, so here I am,” the doctor said, smiling as well. “Is there any of that tea left?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, getting up to take a cup from the kitchen.

John looked at the cup warily. “What was last contained in here? Eyeballs? Urine? Blood?”

“Tea,” Sherlock replied, sitting back down and wondering why Mycroft hadn’t left yet. He and John did not get along very well, and that was saying quite a bit, considering how poorly he got on with his brother.

“So, what were you saying about wanting to visit so often?” John asked, stirring his tea.

Mycroft got that look in his eye. The same look Sherlock had noticed when they were boys and Mycroft was about to do something truly diabolical to him. And he still felt like a helpless child at the sight of it.

“So I could torment my brother here. Tell me, were you aware that he loves to dance?” Mycroft asked, obviously not expecting the blushing, bumbling response he received.

“Of course I know. He taught me how to waltz so I that my first dance with Mary at the wedding would not be a complete disaster,” John said. The mention of Mary did not pain him as obviously as it had just a few months ago, so Sherlock hoped that he was getting over it.

“Hm.” Mycroft’s expression softened. Sherlock knew that his brother was as smart, perhaps smarter, than he, so the unexpressed love between the consulting detective and the doctor had to have been as obvious as a neon sign to him.

“Mrs. Hudson walked in. You can imagine the rumours that started!” John laughed.

“Oh, indeed I can,” Mycroft said, the words laced with meaning.

Sherlock stood up abruptly. “Isn’t it high time you were getting back to running England?”

The elder Holmes did not listen. “Music and dance have always been a bit of a helpmate to my brother, you know,” he said to John. “You know how the violin helps him think. Well, dance is almost like a mix of a Xanax and Adderall. It helps his brain calm down and gives him feelings of happiness.”

“That is enough, Mycroft!” Sherlock could feel his face flaming, and he swore that he would get the dry cleaner to put itching powder in his brother’s underwear that coming weekend.

Mycroft stood, picking up the ever-present umbrella, and tipped an imaginary hat. “With that, I bid you both a good afternoon. I am off to Scotland Yard on some business.”

“What business?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, glad to be able to give Mycroft a taste of his own medicine. “To see if Lestrade’s floor is comfortable on the knees?”

John choked on his tea, surprised into laughter he tried to suppress.

Mycroft went white, then red, and finally left in a huff, managing to keep at least some dignity intact.

When the door slammed behind him, Sherlock and John both burst into giggles.

“Your brother and Greg? Really?” John asked when he could speak again.

Sherlock nodded. “I noticed it when I smelled my brother’s cologne in the Yard two weeks ago. Terribly obvious of him.”

John shook his head, still smiling. “I’ll be!”

The two then sat in companionable silence, John on the Internet and Sherlock reading the newspaper. Just like old times. Just like Moriarty hadn’t murdered Mary while she was pregnant and was now in the shadows somewhere, like a predator waiting to strike.

Her death had made John reaffirm something that Mycroft could have told him when he had first met John: he never loved Mary. He would never love anyone save Sherlock Holmes. And he was truly kidding himself thinking his love for Sherlock was not real.

While John mourned the loss of his unborn daughter, he found it much harder to mourn Mary. It was almost as if he had never known her at all.

It was just like old times...except John realized that he didn’t want it to be exactly the same. No, he wanted much more, probably more than Sherlock was willing to give. But it was worth a shot to put his heart on the line. After all, the only thing he had to lose was Sherlock. He had already lost everything else.

John turned on the bluetooth speaker that connected with his laptop, and Debussy started playing. Sherlock’s eyes lifted from the page, giving John a quizzical look. John got up, placing the laptop on the side table. He stood before Sherlock with his hand extended.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

Sherlock was so shocked by the offer, he barely had time to think before his hand was in John’s warm one, and John was leading him to the middle of the floor, carelessly pushing the coffee table aside with his foot so there was more room for them to dance.

Sherlock was surprised when John took the lead, as he had taught him to do. Somehow, he had assumed that he would lead. This was not unpleasant, however, and he let John lead him about the room, getting lost in the music and in his flatmate’s warm touch.

The song was painfully slow and romantic, a beautiful piano piece that had always reminded Sherlock of falling in love...not that he had ever fallen in love with anyone till he had laid eyes on John Watson. It was atmospheric, beautiful, and the chords struck him in an entirely new way, here as he danced with John in the living room of 221B.

It was as if only the two of them existed in that moment. In those five minutes, all the world was condensed into that room, into their little bubble.

The song slowed at the end, trickling down into just a few sweet piano notes, when Sherlock felt John lead him closer to the sofa. He did not protest, he did not speak, he dared not even breathe lest he break the moment they were sharing. He wanted to keep this moment forever.

Most of all, he wanted John to keep looking at him like that, like he was his whole world, his heart, and his soul. Like he needed or wanted no one but Sherlock.

As the last strains faded away and the song began to replay on an infinite loop, John eased Sherlock down onto the couch, his long, lithe body lying against the cushions. Sherlock could only watch, his pink lips pouted and breathing quickening with anticipation, as John straddled him, laying his face close to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock closed his eyes, telling his heart not to be so damned hopeful, that there was no way--

John’s soft lips touching Sherlock’s cheek stopped his internal dialogue. His lips were as soft as feathers, and as warm as fresh linen. John placed another tentative kiss to Sherlock’s brow, and then to the other cheek.

Sherlock felt his hands in his dark curls and opened his eyes, to see his best friend, his only love, gazing down at him with a mixture of love and awe on his face. Sherlock reached up and caressed John’s face.

John ran a fingertip over Sherlock’s bottom lip, and then cupped his chin, tilting Sherlock’s head up ever so slightly. Sherlock once again closed his eyes as John’s lips brushed his softly, tentatively. Sherlock knew that John was afraid of him not being receptive, but he was a fool to worry. Sherlock did not rush him, as he let John work out that Sherlock was not going to push him away.

John’s lips came down harder, pressing more insistently, and Sherlock kissed him back. He wound his arms around John’s waist, pulling him down so that there was no space at all between their bodies. There was nothing in the world but the music, John’s body, and John’s lips. Nothing at all.

John stopped kissing him and just looked at Sherlock, shock now mingling with the love and awe on his face.

“Sherlock, I--”

Sherlock pressed his fingers to John’s lips. “I know. I have always known, John.”

John blushed. “I was so afraid.”

“I know,” Sherlock repeated, his lips brushing the tip of John’s nose. “But you needn’t worry anymore. I am here. I will always be here.”

At the same moment, both men said, “I love you.”

As the song kept playing, and they discovered every physical and emotional side of each other, Sherlock knew he’d always remember “Clair de Lune” as the song that helped both he and John fall in love. No longer would he associate the term with death, but with love.

 

****

 

One month later, they danced to that very song at their wedding.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked it!
> 
> Here is the song "Clair de Lune", that they dance to. (Pretty obvious why I chose it, right? haha)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvFH_6DNRCY


End file.
